by Joey W. Hill
Sweeping the broken glass into a pile, he got it up and banged the dustpan against the inside of the trash can to get all the glass debris from it. When he straightened, he made himself think past his ego about what his five-foot-tall unlikely bouncer had said about his bar. Though it had riled him, she hadn't been shooting off her mouth. She'd sounded like a woman who knew exactly what she was talking about.
He glanced up, toward the bar. Just in time to see two of his so-called customers leaning over the service station, helping themselves from the beer taps. Shit.
Putting the dustpan and broom aside, he strode behind the bar, sending those customers skedaddling with a fierce look before he stomped back into the kitchen area. "Damn it, Artie. Where the hell are you?"
He was practically shouting, at the end of his rope. Then he noticed the cracked back door and smelled tobacco. Taking an hour-long smoke. Of course.
Artie slid in, crushing the butt out in the door frame. "Yeah, boss?"
Quinn pinned him with every bit of pissed-off he could level on him. "We've got customers out there serving themselves while Maria is flirting like she's turning tricks. Get your ass in gear."
Had the man always been such a disgrace? As Artie hurried past, Quinn noticed how the man's T-shirt was covered with unidentifiable stains and his jeans had spots worn through. Quinn paid the man enough he could buy himself some decent clothes. But she'd been right. He smelled like an alcohol-soaked sponge.
He knew Artie had a drinking problem, but...aw shit. He could keep telling himself the barn was clean enough, but every day the manure was rising higher and higher. Eventually he wouldn't be able to avoid having it right in his face.
Quinn took a deep breath, calming himself down. He'd get through tonight, then maybe he'd do some hard thinking after closing. Sam's wisdom aside, it might be time to call it quits on this.
For now, he returned to the floor and made one more pass at the shattered glass on the floor. Grabbing the big serving tray from behind the bar, he started bussing the closest tables. But as he carried the empties to the bigger trash bin, his attention was caught by a customer coming up to pay his tab. Narrowing his eyes, Quinn gripped the dustpan hard as he watched Artie open the drawer--without ringing up a sale. He gave the man waiting with beer bottle and cash in hand whatever change he was expecting.
She was right. The motherfucker was stealing from him.
Maybe it had been happening for a while and her pointing it out had taken off the blinders. Either way, he saw red. He considered himself a civilized man, but at the end of the day there was a code for dealing with this kind of shit. It didn't involve lawyers or calling the cops.
In the time it took to blink, he'd crossed the floor, slammed the dustpan and tray on the end of the bar and lifted Artie from the spot where he was standing. He shoved him against the wall.
"Not only are you lazy and a slob," Quinn spat, "but you're a goddamn thief. How much of my drawer goes into your pocket every night, Artie? How the fuck much?"
"B-B-But, Quinn," the man blubbered.
"But nothing, you ass. I should--"
Quinn broke off. He realized he was honestly mad enough to do the man real harm, his hands just itching with the need to break and bludgeon. It was then he found out where the delicate-looking woman with steel blue eyes was sitting. At the table right next to where he had Artie pinned.
She'd picked the spot that had a full view of the floor and the door, and was backed up to a corner. It was the table the sheriff preferred when he came to drink, and any of the active military guys on leave.
When Quinn glanced down and to the left, she was less than two feet away. Even so, she hadn't vacated her seat. She didn't seem flustered by him slamming Artie against the wall hard enough to make it vibrate right behind her head. She had her gaze on Quinn, and what he saw in those eyes steadied him.
Cool understanding.
Reaching out, she hooked her slim fingers in Quinn's jeans pocket, giving his hip bone an intimate stroke. She tilted her head, a subtle shift toward the door that said volumes.
He's not worth it. Kick him to the curb and be done with it.
Unbelievably, his cock had sprung right back into a hard jam against his fly, just from that brief contact. But his reaction to her was more than physical. Though the touch aroused him, it also settled that enraged core that was about to do something he couldn't undo. She held him until he steadied, gave her an answering nod. Then she leaned back, letting him go.
Looking at the sniveling mess he was holding, Quinn dropped the man from his grip. "You're fired. Don't ever let me see your miserable face again."
He made sure of it, marching Artie to the door amid applause and grating comments like "about damn time". In the parking lot, Quinn stood there, arms akimbo and legs braced, watching Artie climb into his junker truck, grind the engine into gear and trundle out onto the road. As the dust settled, Quinn tilted his head back, stared up at the night sky. What a fucking mess. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he massaged, closed his eyes.
Okay. Get through tonight.
But when he turned to face the double doors that would take him back into After Dark, Quinn realized the only thing that made him want to go through them ever again was the woman sitting in that back corner.
Yep, he wanted to go right back to her, but there was no time for that. He didn't think Maria could handle the rest of the night on her own. Hell, Quinn wasn't sure he could trust her to close out the cash register properly.
But what if the woman disappeared during that time? She was definitely not a local. Probably on her way to one of the big cities, someone he'd never see come this way again. He didn't like the idea of that. But he couldn't think of a single thing to say to keep her sitting at that table until closing time. Nothing that wouldn't come off crazy and drive her away faster.
When he came back in, he found it wasn't an issue. She wasn't at the table. Feeling a spurt of panic, he looked around, gaze darting here and there, feet itching to run him back to the parking lot before she drove away. Then he saw her.
Working.
She was acting as if he'd left her in charge, instructing Maria to bus the tables with the tray he'd dropped while she took point behind the bar. She was in the middle of mixing what appeared to be three different drinks, her head cocked to listen to other orders coming in. With a professional warm smile, she responded to one of the patrons, popping the top of a couple beers and sliding them his way. Then she rang up two sales, a cash and a credit transaction.
Anyone else, he would have been over that bar, demanding an explanation for what the fuck she was doing, but her competence was as obvious as a veteran cowhand working stock. He was looking at a woman who'd worked in a bar for a long time. Or a lot of different bars.
Fine. Yeah, she might present herself better than Artie, but that didn't mean he was going to just let her take over without knowing what she was about. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know his cock was interfering with his judgment. He needed to engage his other brain, the supposedly higher-functioning one, and take a good hard look at this situation.
How he wished he hadn't used the word "hard", because that just made it more difficult to keep that part of him in check.
Libido aside, he had to admit it was difficult to argue with the proof in front of him. He'd only been out in the lot ten minutes or so, yet everyone sitting at the bar had drinks and Maria was quickly finishing up the table bussing, Quinn's sexy sprite giving her the direction Artie never had. It made Quinn rethink whether the barmaid was truly lazy. She and Carol, the other one he'd hired, were barely kids, after all. Maybe they just needed more supervision, like what he was witnessing.
The woman was ringing up another sale when his muscles finally unfroze.
"Hey, Quinn," someone called as he strode behind the bar. "Nice to see you finally got some class in this place."
Quinn forced a smile and nodded. "Just for you, Mike."
The re
gister rang again and she handed back change, but before she could reach for another empty to refill, he clamped his hand around her wrist, turning away from the patrons so they couldn't hear him. He jerked his head at Maria to take over as he drew the woman toward the back wall. The position brushed her shoulder against his chest, and put her close enough he could inhale the scent of her hair. The scent of her, period.
She smelled like cool things. Freshly turned earth in the shade of an old oak, churned butter pulled from his grandfather's icebox, and rain in the fall. All things he liked. "No offense, but I just tossed one guy taking advantage of me, so what are you doing behind my bar? Where the hell did you come from? Do you have a name?"
He'd intended to sound gruff and demanding, but as she lifted long-lashed eyes to study his face, her head barely reaching his shoulder, he knew he was more curious than anything. She wore a light covering of lipstick, a coral pink that looked good against her fair skin. That glossy sheen suggested moist invitation. When she spoke, he smelled mint and the faint flavor of the Jack. It really was uncanny, how young and old she seemed. If he was only going on her looks, he'd guess she was at least ten to fifteen years younger than him. But her eyes said she was quite a bit older.
"Selene Torres," she said. "I came in from the road for a drink. And I didn't say it was okay for you to touch me yet. Let go."
Yet? It was funny how a man could latch on to one word like a steer's horns and let the beast drag him right off the cliff. But she wasn't being coy. She had the same set to her mouth she'd had when she'd dealt with Howie and his potential punching bag. She wasn't intimidated by the difference in their sizes or Quinn's tone of voice. Appearances certainly were deceiving.
Selene. A beautiful name to go with a fascinating woman. She affected him, no question. Though he loosened his hold, he didn't let go, wanting to see what she'd do about it. He craved her response to a challenge, enough that his need for it made him uneasy.
A blink later, he discovered she could call enough fire in her eyes for someone twice her size, but the heat of it was something he'd willingly embrace.
"Don't test me right now," she said. "We can discuss that later."
She removed her hand from his grasp with a deft twist that surprised him with the subtle torque. Almost as much as how she reversed it, her fingers now resting on his forearm, her index finger making a light pass over his wrist bones before she took that distracting touch away.
"Your skin is sun drenched," she observed, gaze sliding over the tanned expanse of his face, his throat, back down to his arms, revealed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves. "But..." She wet a finger, giving him a quick glimpse of the tip of her tongue before she rubbed the pad of that forefinger over his wrist. "You have an ink mark there."
Quinn stared down at the crown of her head. He wanted her. Not like a buckle bunny, a quick fuck against the wall, though he could easily see that happening. He wanted her in so many ways it was like a crazy film reel shooting images through his head so fast he couldn't list all the things she was making him want.
"Hey, Quinn." One of the men seated at the bar called down to him. "Don't take her head off. In ten minutes, she's run this place better than that asshole you just threw out ever did. And she's a damn sight better to look at."
Agreement traveled down the bar like the wave at a sporting event, but Quinn's attention remained glued to her. When she lifted her gaze again, she didn't break eye contact. Out of all the captivating things about this woman, that was what he kept noticing the most. No blinking, no wavering. It was the most direct stare he'd ever experienced, as if she could do it for hours without twitching. There was an odd stillness to her. Funny how he'd never noticed how much people moved even when they didn't seem to move. But she didn't.
Her thumb stayed pressed over the small spot of his skin tingling from her moist care while the rest of her fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding him. As she tightened that grip, he had a sudden vision of himself on his knees, lifting both hands to her as she ran a rope in figure eights around his wrists, over and over.
The thought startled him so much, he almost pulled away from her. He'd never had a single woman in his bed he would have let tie him up. He thought of his earlier discontent with former lovers, how they'd almost seemed too compliant. In this woman's eyes, he saw so many fantasies he'd never pursued, but which had drifted in his subconscious, permeating early morning erotic dreams he pushed away at dawn. With her, he wanted to bring them to life, and it scared the shit out of him.
Fuck, he was in a bunch of trouble here. Focus on the bar, asshole. Stay away from anything else.
"We should talk," he said. "Will you stay until closing?"
During the bated moment before she answered, he found himself trying to understand why he anticipated her answer so much. Leaning in, she braced herself on his chest once more, lifting up onto her toes so she could put her nose close to the pocket of his throat. The current between them was electric as she inhaled, her breath caressing his skin through the open collar of his shirt.
"Sun drenched," she murmured again. "Yes, Quinn. I'll stay until closing."
Sliding down his body as she put her heels back on solid ground, she turned away and left him.
Chapter Two
He helped out, ostensibly to watch her like a hawk for the remaining couple of hours until closing. But he would have watched her anyway, and he wasn't alone. Male and female patrons alike seemed awestruck by Selene. She took over the mixed drinks and had Maria running the beer tap, bussing tables and ferrying the drinks to the floor. Selene also stayed on top of the food orders, keeping the tickets organized and clear for Manuel, the cook in back.
She was so efficient she even worked in a little entertainment, putting together a new drink that she finished with the flame flourish of an atomizer Quinn didn't know they had. "Gives it a woodsmoke taste," she told the fascinated patrons, offering them a provocative wink. "Who wants one? Show of hands. Ten bucks each."
Hands shot in the air, and she lined up her glasses, serving out nearly a dozen of them in a handful of minutes, complete with the deft bottle spins most of them had only seen in the snazzy city theme bars or that old Tom Cruise movie. She was graceful and swift, no wasted motion.
Everything about her said there was no way in hell he could afford her.
But she'd agreed to meet with him at the end of the night, and he wouldn't let go of that, no matter how pointless it might be, or that he couldn't explain to himself why he needed to hold onto her as long as he could. All he knew was it was the first time in a while he'd felt something real when he looked at a woman. And she'd looked back.
Though on the surface she never seemed out of control, he had a good bit of time while watching her to rewind, go back over everything he'd noticed about her. She might have knocked him off his axis, but he was rallying, taking her measure the way she'd obviously taken his. Earlier she'd seemed more tightly wound and watchful. As she interacted with the bar patrons, he got the sense she genuinely enjoyed this, that it eased up things inside her. It gave her eyes a sparkle, her smile more relaxed. She went from flat-out beautiful to something even more approachable, something a man wanted to be near.
Earlier what he saw had been something he'd want to fuck, and that was dangerous enough. What he saw now was even more perilous. The kind of woman he wanted to be curled around at night, whose scent he wanted in his bed, on his skin. He'd cherish the small sounds as she shifted and murmured, the grazing touch of her fingers as she curled her hand over his forearm, pressed under her breasts as he spooned with her.
She'd probably consider that quaint, the dumb cowboy in the middle of nowhere with his apple pie and grow-old-with-me ideas of marriage and a relationship. It wasn't like he was going to share such nonsense with her though. No matter the vibe she gave off, he knew she wasn't that type. He might give the idea of fucking her a really good shot though.
Of course, he might crap out and turn into a pumpkin b
efore then. When it was clear she and Maria had things in hand, he'd taken a seat at the table she'd vacated earlier. He'd put one booted foot up on the opposite chair, bracing the other on the floor as he crossed his arms over his chest, and just enjoyed the show. While it was the first time he'd been able to do that since he'd taken over the saloon, the day's ranch demands had apparently caught up with him.
He roused at a hand on his shoulder. Lifting his head, he blinked blearily at Maria, who gave him an uncertain smile. "Mr. Pedraza, it's past closing time. Selene said Manuel can walk me out to my car if you don't have anything else for us tonight. She split all the bar tips with us. Said we deserved it."
Well, look at Maria, practically glowing with a sense of self-accomplishment, not a shallow, care-about-nothing-but-herself kid after all. He was too used to dealing with the more straightforward temperament of ranch hands, obviously.
"Yeah." Clearing his throat, he straightened, rubbing at his face. "You all did a hell of a job tonight. Good job."
She glowed like a firefly. Manuel, standing behind her, nodded and smiled as well. He looked far less frazzled than Quinn had ever seen him. Guilt tinged his gut as he realized the kind of firefight being between him and Artie these past few months had probably been. "I hope she can stay," the cook said in a low voice, tilting his head to the bar. "She's good, Mr. Pedraza."
"Yeah she is." Probably way too good for After Dark. Maybe for Quinn too.
It wasn't like him to feel unsure about himself around women, off balance. But wasn't that part of the problem he'd been having with women lately? Always feeling like there were no surprises? That they were just too accepting of everything he was and wanted, letting him set all the terms? But wasn't that what a man was supposed to do, women wanting the whole take-charge, alpha thing?
Maria and Manuel left, carrying the last bags of trash with them, something Quinn had been having to do himself at the end of the night. As he got his ass off the chair, Selene was coming out of the kitchen, clean bar rag in hand, which she folded and placed on the counter. Everything might be beat up, run down, but it was all cleaner than he'd seen it left at closing since he'd taken ownership. Hell, how long had he been asleep?
